


the thrill of you

by harryhart



Category: Original Work
Genre: Artists, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Past Lives, Reincarnation, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 16:01:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21139337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harryhart/pseuds/harryhart
Summary: At night, while Joni Mitchell's soft voice fills his quiet apartment, we dance for our endless love.





	the thrill of you

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Joni Mitchell's rendition of At Last.

Dinner is over, the TV is long forgotten and the dishes have been dealt with. Everything is dark except for the soft light from the Victorian lamp next to the record player – the one he insisted on buying since it reminded him of our intermittent years together, I think he got it simply because he liked it but he always had the habit of finding silly reasons to make everything more poetic – and the dim yellow light coming from the street, enough for us to read our books comfortably.

His apartment would be terribly quiet at this time of the night if it wasn’t for the record player softly blowing in the corner next to the shelves filled with his books. It’s his favorite space in the house and I know this because we spent most of our time inside the cozy spacious room, working silently in the morning, him on his music and me on my poetry or just killing the hours as we wait for the day to end, just like we are doing now. It’s my favorite room as well, because in here he is himself, so genuine and open. In this room, we feel at home.

As I lay on the couch I try to delve into my book but as much as I try, my eyes are drawn to him. To watch him read is something else entirely, the way his tongue dips lightly on his finger to turn the page, or the way he sometimes says words out loud, his lips tasting them to see how they work, how they feel and of course, his deep concentration as he devours the sentences inked on the sheet of paper, The Wild Iris by Glück.

He reads to me sometimes, when he really likes a poem and wants to share the feeling it evoked inside him, he sits next to me and softly recites the words, his husky voice sometimes getting caught up in the emotion. I don’t let him know how much I enjoy watching him read, if he knew he would tease me mercilessly, so I keep it my little secret. My way of loving him, to keep him alive when we are not together anymore.

The air is warm but not too hot, and there’s no humidity in the air which makes it a perfect relaxing summer night. The open window lets in a soft breeze that makes the curtains sway drunkenly around us. He likes to touch the fabric when it dances near him, feeling it in between his fingers and then letting it go, never taking his eyes away from whatever he is doing.

The soft thuds of the stylus hitting the end of the groove announces that the A-side of the record has come to an end. He stands up, leaving his book face down on the couch so as not to lose the page and hurries to turn the vinyl to keep listening to Joni Mitchell’s soothing voice.

At Last starts playing, a tale of romantic comfort that fills the room with haziness, and I see him smile from my spot, a sweet contagious smile that makes me happy. As he begins to softly hum the tune, I go back to my book, letting him have that moment to himself. A moment later, I find him standing by my side, offering his hand to me. I protest playfully and his smile widens, only to proceed to take the wine glass out of my hand and place it on the coffee table, and then grab my hand to tug me up, intertwining his fingers with mine, insisting that I dance with him. I give him a shy smile and I give in, getting up to stand close together.

We don’t move much from the spot we are in, he just simply begins swaying to the music, slow, never rushing. The back of his hand brushes my cheek sweetly before continuing to place a strand of my hair behind my ear. Gently, he places his hand on my lower back, making me take a step forward as he grabs my hand again, holding me close and secure against him. And just like that, we start dancing to the velvety rhythm of the song. I relax, easing into the music and him. I place my cheek on his shoulder, burying my face on the crook of his neck, enjoying the way our skins react to one another.

The intricacy of life has dissolved into the gentle swish of the cars outside and a sense of tranquility washes over both. Our cat contemplates the scene from the couch, his tail waving vaguely as he observes us, trying to fight off sleep. The books who had our full attention a few minutes ago are long forgotten on the couches where we left them, but it doesn’t matter because right now being like this, next to each other, is more important, even if it is for a brief moment until the song ends and the record continuous.

We begin to break apart — our hands still laced together — and he smiles at me with such delicacy I can feel my eyes watering. I love him so much, I've loved him from the moment I saw him all those centuries ago, and if I had to do it all over again I wouldn't hesitate. We don't have to say anything, the words of all the hundreds of books neatly displayed on his shelves would never be enough to express how much I love him and how much he loves me.

In quiet moments like this, this tender nights where he holds me so softly, so close to him, I realize I would wait a million years for him, a thousand lives even. All those years we spent apart are worthy because of nights like this. We’ve cracked the pattern and now we wait, even though in our next life we may not even meet or maybe our love might doom to be torn apart by some force outside our power, these nights will be enough for the long eternity. He will write songs about me and my bad-habit of being barefoot in the winter and I'll write poems about his hair and how he talks in his sleep at night, and our creations will perdure throughout the years, even if we do not, even if we don’t remember them. They will be ours to forget.


End file.
